Chapter 22
Jolee
I toss for the hundredth time. Sleep isn’t in my near future. My bed doesn’t feel like I remember it. I used to sleep so well. Now it just feels cold, and my mattress is like a rock. Unforgiving.
I’m not thinking about my list.
Nope.
Or them.
Which is a total lie.
Sigh.
Besides, there is nothing I can do right now that’s on that damn list. I should’ve added orgasms. Multiple orgasms. Those would calm my thoughts and let me drift off to sleep. It worked when I was with them.
The box under my bed is full of toys from Platinum Pleasures.
All unopened. I didn’t know what to do with them since I wasn’t giving myself orgasms, and throwing them away felt wrong on so many levels.
And could you imagine if someone went through the garbage?
O.M.G. I’d die of complete mortification.
Grant and Clay wouldn’t hesitate to give me one or three. Maybe I could try one? What would it hurt? Screw it.
I climb out of bed and kneel, reaching for one of the boxes. The first one I touch, I grab and toss onto the bed. I don’t know the first thing about any of these, but I grab one that’s red—not too scary looking—and some lube. It’s my favorite color, so it seems less intimidating.
I press the little button, and it comes to life. Almost vibrating out of my hand. Wow. That’s got to do something good.
I move my pillows around and get comfortable. Part of me wonders what the guys would do with this. It’s skinny and not too long, not like their cocks.
My sex clenches at remembering what they feel like. Already feeling empty. That’s where I start. I lube up the toy and slowly press it inside of me. It feels foreign and definitely doesn’t stretch me the way they did.
But that’s okay. I can make this work. I continue to explore and try different angles. Changing my pace. I’m only half thinking about what I’m doing; my thoughts keep returning to them.
Wondering what they are doing right now. Are they in bed together? What would it be like to watch them? Would I like it? I mean, I love them naked and sweaty on me. When they kiss, it makes me hot, wet, and horny.
I groan. I love watching them kiss. I love seeing them fully lost in each other. Making love to each other.
My brain makes up its own scene. One where I’m shoving this toy in and out of my wet pussy, while I watch Grant fuck Clay. Watch as his thick cock stretches Clay’s ass. Oh. That would be hot.
I can feel my heart rate picking up. I keep my eyes closed as I turn up the vibrations. Do they ever taste each other? I loved having each of them in my mouth. Clay is always eager to please me, and I’m sure he does the same with Grant. Taking him all the way in and down his throat.
I moan, and my hips buck with the vibrator.
Clay would swallow it all down, or maybe Grant would cover him in it. He’s probably marked his husband dozens of times.
Ah. I’m close. So close. I put the vibrator in deep, clenching around it, and I work my clit with my fingers. Sliding around easily between the lube and my arousal.
“Clay! Grant!” I cry out into the empty room. Their names echo in my head as I try to catch my breath.
Damn them.
Well then. I lay in bliss on my bed. The vibrator is now off, but I leave it in my sex. It reminds me that Clay always stays in as long as he can. I didn’t even realize how much I like that until right now. I don’t want to feel empty.
Letting a few minutes pass by. Missing the orgasms they gave me. They were so much… more.
I sigh. Take the vibrator out and go to the bathroom to clean up. I crawl back under my sheets and blanket. I’m warmer and feel lighter after that. But I’m sad that I don’t have one or both of them to curl around and just sleep.
I grab my biggest pillow and snuggle with it. I hold back the tears that threaten my eyes. I will not cry over them.
“No!” I shout.
My eyes burn, my throat raw. I force myself to breathe, to get my bearings, and realize it was just a nightmare.
Damn.
I can’t remember what it was about, and probably for the best. Most of my dreams drag me back to the night of the accident, or to his mother screaming at me after his death.
The nightmares always show me the worst parts of Andy dying. I was barely twenty when everything happened. But the good memories? I buried those memories, too. Shoved them down deep and pretended they didn’t exist. It was just easier if I pretended Andy and I were never engaged. We never anything.
I head into the kitchen for a glass of water, hoping the movement will convince my body it’s still exhausted. Still safe. Still here.
The cool water soothes my throat. I refill the glass, then turn to take it back to my room.
As I pass the table, I stop cold.
No. It can’t be.
An envelope sits there. The same kind as the other letters came in. My pulse pounds. I know I shouldn’t open it. Andy is dead. His mother is fucking dead. Who’s next? I fucking hate all of this. This needs to be over.
My anger is getting the best of me; I rip it open. None of this should be happening.
There’s only one word.
Goodbye.
SJ
What the hell?
Now I’m even more confused. Who is this?
I sit down, the letter still in my hand, and read it again. Just that word. Those initials. Sherry’s last name doesn’t even start with a J. How did I not notice this before? Her last name is Michaels. I have to know who this is. I need to know.
Think.
Who else was in his family? His dad. His brother. It isn’t either of them. It can’t be. And yet, someone's sending these to me. Someone knows me. Someone who knew… us.
I stare at the paper, my fingers trembling as I shake it slightly, as it might finally give up its secret and leap off the page. Tell me who you are.
Nothing comes.
Maybe in the morning, I tell myself, though I don’t believe it. I take my water and drag myself back to the bedroom, my mind already racing ahead of me.
Names blur together, thoughts stacking on top of each other. I’m making another list, whether I want to or not. Something has to click. It’s going to be a long night, orgasm earlier or not.
I sit on the edge of my bed, staring at nothing. I can’t shut my brain off, so I let it run. I close my eyes and reach backward, pulling up faces I haven’t thought about in years. People I used to know. People I used to call friends. People I graduated with.
The list is short.
Jamie. Aubry. Teresa. Lisa. Michelle.
Wait.
Michelle.
My eyes snap open.
Oh my god. No, it has to be Michelle. She despised being called Michelle and insisted on Shelly. Shelly Jones.
SJ.
My stomach drops as I put a few more pieces together.
She hated me. I was sure of that. We never fought because she wouldn’t even acknowledge that I existed. But why would she send these letters? Why now?
That I don’t have an answer to, but the certainty settles in anyway, heavy and cold. It’s her. It has to be.
Without thinking, I grab my phone and text Clay. The second I send it, regret sinks in. I haven’t heard from him. He’s probably given up and moved on.
I’ll call the cops in the morning. I’ll show them the letter, give them her name, and tell them she’s someone to look into.
It’s already four in the morning. Not that it matters. I know sleep isn’t coming back for me now. Questions are forming rapidly in my head.
Why did Andy’s death have anything to do with her?
I lie down anyway, curling around my pillow, trying to ground myself. I think about my guys. I hold onto that thought, like it might keep the darkness away.